


Centre of the Ring (all eyes on me)

by ineptshieldmaid



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Exhibitionism, Kink Discovery, M/M, foreign language hazards, i have a thing for viktor's thing for kneeling, small exercises of gratuitous switzerland localisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 01:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10866207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid/pseuds/ineptshieldmaid
Summary: It had been Viktor who took pity on him and pulled him aside and explained just what it was that Chris had said, and that Chris should probably not google himself for a while. Of course Chris googled himself: the fan forums had gone crazy, evenly split between people devoted to the belief that Christophe Giacometti experiences orgasms while skating, and people who wanted the former group banned for unfairly objectifying and/or mocking Chris in his youth and adorable second-language-speaker status. Chris had been offended: English is histhirdlanguage, thank you very much, and also he is quite happy to be objectified.And that is, essentially, the source of Chris’ biggest problem this season. Every time he steps out onto the ice he thinkswhen I come on the ice, and he knows.





	Centre of the Ring (all eyes on me)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to saraaah for SPaG checking, and dance_across for egging-on.
> 
> Title from Britney Spears' 'Circus' because, well, how could I NOT?
> 
> For the record this is *not* congruent with the long arc in my Patron Saint series (which you will figure out by about 2/3 of the way in, but just to be clear).
> 
> As usual further notes at the end.

Christophe Giacometti is nineteen years old, and he has a problem. He has a lot of problems, actually. He has yet to land a quad sal, and it feels like everyone else - or at least, everyone important - is doing it by now. His coach is retiring at the end of this season and he needs to find a new one. At some point, at the far end of this season, Chris has to sit the maturité exams and find out exactly how little of his high school education he has retained. He has not one but three ragingly inconvenient crushes (they are, in ascending order of inconvenience: Viktor Nikiforov, Stephané Lambiel, and Laurelie, who is seventeen and currently the Swiss ladies bronze medalist and also Chris’ rinkmate). All of these things are problems.

Also a problem is that Chris is still being dogged by last year’s outstanding English language mistake, in which he had been _trying_ to tell a journalist at the Euros about how he felt stepping onto the rink, and instead told the journalist - and the entire television audience - how amazing he feels when he _comes on the ice_.

It had been Viktor who took pity on him and pulled him aside and explained just what it was that Chris had said, and that Chris should probably not google himself for a while. Of course Chris googled himself: the fan forums had gone crazy, evenly split between people devoted to the belief that Christophe Giacometti experiences orgasms while skating, and people who wanted the former group banned for unfairly objectifying and/or mocking Chris in his youth and adorable second-language-speaker status. Chris had been offended: English is his _third_ language, thank you very much, and also he is quite happy to be objectified.

And that is, essentially, the source of Chris’ biggest problem this season. Every time he steps out onto the ice he thinks _when I come on the ice_ , and he knows. He knows there are people watching him - people at home in their living rooms, people in the audience right there, hell, other skaters watching the monitors - who are watching him for signs of arousal. Hoping to catch the moment when Christophe Giacometti _comes on the ice_.

It’s not a problem for his performance. His performances have been great, this season. The commentators - he hunts out the transcripts from Eurosport and CNN later - are making noises about his electric personality and his chemistry with the audience and his daring costumes, and so on. His exhibition skate involves fishnets and a corset (unboned). This is definitely his greatest season yet.

The _problem_ is, Chris does not in fact come on the ice. He gets hard, yes - he never did before that fatal interview, but now he does, every damn time, even at relatively minor competitions. But he doesn’t _come_. 

And he really fucking wants to.

* * *

In the down time between the Euros and Worlds, Chris is supposed to be catching up on his schoolwork. He spends most of this time wondering why he didn’t take the logical option and go to technical school instead. What does he even think he’s going to do after this, slog through a Bachelor's degree in something completely unrelated to skating?

It is in the name of German language practice that Chris, who is supposed to be spending a weekend studying at his grandparents’ place, hits on an Austrian tourist in the village café. She’s a few years older than him, and recognises him at once. She really loved his exhibition routine this season, she tells him. And, if it’s not too bold, she really loved his costume, and everything it does for his ass.

Chris goes back to her hotel room. She pushes him into a chair and straddles him, unbuttons his shirt and gazes down at him.

‘You enjoy the view?’ Chris asks, in his clunky German. She laughs, and humours him, and answers back in the same language,

‘Very nice,’ she says, and presses up close against him.

It’s not - it’s not _bad_ sex. Chris’ sample size for sex is still relatively small, but this isn’t bad. It’s just that, as she strips him down and gets her hands all over him, as his skin sings with the sensation, he keeps thinking _but I want you to watch me_. He stretches out on her bed, one hand around his own dick, and looks up at her through his eyelashes - he knows that’s effective, it’s his favourite trick. He cants his hips, jerks himself, gives her the best view he can. When she purrs something that he thinks probably means ‘oh, aren’t you a tease’, and leans down to take him in her mouth, he makes all the right encouraging noises. It’s not bad. It feels fucking amazing, actually, but it doesn’t do anything for the hum in the back of his head that says _I wanted you to watch me_.

* * *

Chris keeps googling himself. There are whole livejournal communities devoted to screencaps from his routines this season, each post debating exactly which scrunched-up facial expression or gasp is the point where he came. There are a few favourites: his finishing poses are popular, as are the hydroblades and that one cantilever in his exhibition skate. A few people stand by the theory that he actually gets off mid-jump, and the triple axel is particularly popular with those people. Chris is fairly certain if he came mid-jump he’d screw up the landing, but damn. 

He has his routines memorised, of course he does. Every gesture, every bunch and shift in his muscles. Every soaring, gut-wrenching moment when he takes off into a jump and the absolute exhilaration when he lands it. He’s never actually come on the ice - not mid-jump, not in any other move - but he _knows_. He knows what it would feel like.

Chris wonders how many other skaters get off thinking of their own routines. Does Viktor? Does Viktor, whose body and persona change from season to season, from coquette to yearning to transcendent delight, lie alone in St Petersburg with his dick in hand and his free skate routine in his ears?

Chris doesn’t ask himself about Stéphane, or Laurelie. He has to look them in the eye too often. Viktor, who is beautiful and kind, and does actually seem to like Chris as a person, is much further away and Chris only has to face him a few times a year.

* * *

Chris can, it turns out, come without anyone touching his dick, but only if he has something in his ass.

It also turns out that if you try skating your routine with a plug up your ass, your gait will be all wrong, and you’ll mis-time all your jumps. Then you’ll have to survive a conversation with your most beautiful rink-mate, who is touchingly concerned about your poor form and potential injury, before you can escape to the bathrooms and jerk off desperately.

Chris resigns himself to not trying that again.

If he is thereafter plagued by a persistent fantasy involving himself missing all his jumps at Worlds, and Viktor following him to the showers to see if he’s okay, well. Apparently he has that in common with a disturbing number of people on livejournal.

(In this fantasy, Viktor realises what he’s done, and admonishes him. Why would you do a thing like that? Throw away your short program for some weird kink?

Because, Chris explains, kneeling on the shower floor, looking up at Viktor. Because I want, so badly.

Is getting off on the rink not enough for you? Viktor demands, because in this fantasy Viktor, like everyone on the internet, believes Chris really does come on the ice. You needed something in your ass that much?

But I can’t, Chris says, jerking himself pathetically, his body quivering around the plug. I want to, but I just can’t, not without touching…

The fantasy fragments there. Sometimes Viktor is sympathetic, and confesses that he’s been thinking about Chris coming on the ice for _years_ , long before that interview, and he has screenshots of Chris’ face, and he really thought…

Sometimes Viktor says he has an idea, and makes Chris promise to meet him late at night, and whisks him away to some private rink that he inexplicably has after-hours access to, and Chris skates for him naked - except for his skates and socks, which probably looks terrible but Chris doesn’t care - and ends up on his knees. Instead of the major case of shrunken balls that would result from being stupid enough to skate naked, Chris is hard and Viktor is watching him and he could come with the barest touch to his dick but he doesn’t. He arches his back and draws it out and eventually Viktor can’t resist, skates over to him, knees down with him and murmurs in his ear: come, Christophe, come for me.

Sometimes Viktor kneels down on the shower floor with him, and kisses him. Then he puts a hand on Chris’ wrist and stills his efforts to jerk himself off. Wait, he says. Don’t come now. Don’t come tonight, either. Don’t you dare wear that plug tomorrow, I have a better idea. Don’t come before the free skates, and if you can rank in the top five, I’ll _make_ you come afterwards, right here, on these very tiles.)

Chris is going to have a problem looking Viktor in the eye at Worlds this year.

* * *

At Worlds in Tokyo, before the short program, Chris manages to escape his handlers - his coach, he means, he escapes his coach - and finds the gossipiest looking reporter he can, and gives her a mountain of sound-bites about how _explosive_ this competition is going to be. 

‘Christophe,’ she says, leaning in close to him, ‘you know, after that interview last year, a lot of people have been speculating about your, ah, sexuality. How do you feel about that?’

Chris winks at her and says, ‘I just hope this competition is as good for them as it is for me.’

He wonders if he can shoehorn this into every interview from now on. Maybe if he tells _literally everyone_ he gets off on the ice, if he has everyone’s eyes on him and he knows that they know… maybe then. Maybe he could come just from the thought of it. Maybe he won’t _care_ if he doesn’t come. Maybe three minutes of skating and knowing _everyone_ , from the kids at school to the audience in the rink to Viktor fucking Nikiforov, is watching and wondering - maybe those three minutes would be worth more than any orgasm he could have.

* * *

Chris skates right after Viktor in the free skate. At this point they’re both in medal contention, but neither Joubert nor Lambiel have skated yet. 

Chris goes to join Viktor in the little holding area they have for medal contenders. Lysakek, who’s currently holding third, is nowhere to be seen. Viktor looks him up and down, eyes lingering too long over Chris’ crotch. Chris smirks at him. 

‘You really can’t hide anything in that get-up, can you?’ Viktor asks.

Chris drops into a seat, slouching back and spreading his knees. ‘Why would I want to? I’ve got to live up to my reputation.’

‘Your reputation,’ Viktor says. ‘Your minor language error, you mean?’ Chris can’t actually read Viktor all that well: he’s raising one eyebrow and giving Chris shit right now, but what’s underneath it, he’s not sure.

‘Mmm,’ Chris says. ‘Unconsciously magnificent language error, maybe.’ Viktor keeps giving him the skeptical look. They’re both ignoring Joubert’s routine. Chris gives Viktor the upward-through-his-lashes look. ‘I’m finding it… inspirational.’

‘Is that what they call it?’ Viktor murmurs.

‘Do you like the results, Nikiforov?’ Chris nods toward the screen in front of them, where Joubert has hit the second half of his program. ‘You were watching, weren’t you?’ Of course he was: Viktor diligently watches the entire field, even group one, every competition.

Viktor holds his gaze for a moment, and Chris feels himself flush from the chest up. He’s expecting some kind of sass, or maybe a flat challenge to the veracity of his coming-on-ice reputation. Instead, he gets honesty.

‘Yes,’ Viktor says. ‘I was.’ A beat, and then, ‘And I enjoyed it very much.’

It’s probably just as well that Chris doesn’t come just from being looked at, or he’d be in serious trouble right now. Still, neither arousal nor embarrassment have ever stopped him yet.

‘If you want to see more,’ he says, vaguely registering the sound of the audience cheering for Joubert, ‘you know where my room is.’

Viktor doesn’t answer that.

* * *

Chris doesn’t get a medal that night, but he does get Viktor turning up outside his hotel room door. Chris abruptly abandons his half-formed plan to investigate Tokyo’s nightclubs.

‘Chris,’ Viktor says, and gives him the thousand-watt smile. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner!’

‘Would that be before or after I strip for you?’ Chris asks.

Viktor blinks for a second, like maybe he hadn’t actually thought Chris would go through with his offer, and then laughs. ‘Either. Both. You strip now, I’ll strip later?’

Insofar as Chris had a plan it had involved both of them getting naked, but this is an idea he can work with. ‘Well, come in then,’ he says, and gestures Viktor toward the bed. ‘Sit,’ he says, and Viktor sits. ‘No touching,’ he says, when Viktor’s hands ghost up his sides. 

‘What’re the rules here?’ Viktor asks. Chris stands, hand on one hip, just in front of him. ‘I mean, what are you…?’

‘Did you want to see more, Viktor?’ Chris asks. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, nothing exciting, but that doesn’t matter: Viktor’s eyes go wide, and Chris’s blood sings in his ears.

‘I do, yes,’ Viktor says. Chris fucking _loves_ the way he says it, low-voiced and slow but not hesitant. More like he’s thought about it carefully; so very unlike the flippant showman-talk Viktor is starting to get a reputation for.

‘Then watch.’

As a matter of fact, Chris hasn’t ever done a strip tease before, but he decides in a split second he’s not going to let that stop him. Viktor sits on the end of the bed like he’s stuck there, hands bunched in the duvet. Chris peels off his shirt. Viktor’s eyes travel down the length of Chris’s torso.

‘Like what you see?’

‘Fuck, yes,’ Viktor says. ‘You’re beautiful.’

‘One day,’ Chris says, popping the button on his jeans, ‘I’m going to do this for an exhibition. I’m going to have tights with those little snap button things down the side of each leg, and I’m going to snap them right off.’

Viktor swallows visibly, and doesn’t remark on the obvious impracticalities of that plan. Chris pauses, fly half-open, and realises he’s missed a very important step. Exhibitionism is one thing - and at this point he has to admit it’s _his_ thing - but if he lets Viktor Nikiforov get out of this without so much as kissing him, he’s going to regret it for years.

He rests one knee on the bed and finds he’s looming over Viktor, and he _likes_ it. Viktor’s got his hair in a braid, so Chris uses it to tip his head back, and Viktor goes along with it. Chris kisses him and Viktor yields and it’s fucking _beautiful_.

‘Oh thank fuck,’ Viktor says. ‘I thought you weren’t…’

‘You thought I was going to strip off and not let you touch at all?’ Chris asks. Viktor nods. He’s not actually all that old, Chris realises, in a rush. Only twenty-one. The gap seemed like a gulf three years ago, and Chris just hadn’t really reconsidered it. Viktor looks up at him with something like confusion, and Chris suddenly feels protective. He lays one hand alongside Viktor’s cheek.

‘Everything okay so far?’

‘Even better if you kiss me again,’ Viktor says, so Chris does. He pulls back and has a suddenly brilliant idea.

‘How about you help me get these off?’ he says, thumbs in the waistband of his pants.

Viktor drops to his knees on the floor at the end of the bed, which Chris hadn’t been expecting, but with which Chris is completely, one hundred percent okay. Viktor peels the jeans off his hips and slides them down, holds them while Chris steps out of them. And then he _folds_ them and sets them aside, and stays on his knees, looking up at Chris. Chris takes a moment to digest that, and to reconfigure his poor excuse for a plan.

They end up with Chris stretched out across the foot of the bed, propped up on one arm and looking down at Viktor. He strokes his dick with one hand and Viktor watches, wide-eyed and hungry.

‘What are you thinking?’ Chris asks, and that’s the right question, because Viktor spills a glorious mixture of praise and filthy commentary, about how beautiful Chris is and how much Viktor wants to _touch_ him. And it’s not that Chris doesn’t want to be touched - he does, of course he does, he’s wanted Viktor to touch him for literally years - but this is too good the way it is. 

‘Later,’ he says. ‘After the gala, will you fuck me?’ Viktor’s adam’s apple bobs. Chris gets creative. ‘Bend me over and fuck me, get my ass in the air and tell me how much you love it,’ he says, and it’s only once the words are out that he realises how weird that sounds. Viktor doesn’t seem to mind, though, just draws in a sharp gasp.

‘You have no idea,’ Viktor says, ‘how much i’d love that.’

‘I think I have some idea,’ Chris says, and comes all over his own hand.

They go out to dinner, and then Chris peels Viktor’s clothes off him and kisses as much of him as he thinks he can reasonably get away with. This turns out to be quite a lot, because Viktor _loves_ being touched, like no one else Chris has ever been with. Chris isn’t even sure if it’s about erogenous zones, so much as it is about Viktor basking in all the tactile attention. Chris has absolutely no objection to that.

It transpires that neither of them actually have lube - Chris is going to fix that before tomorrow night - but the bathroom furnishes hand lotion, and Chris slicks Viktor up with it and fits Viktor’s dick in between his thighs. This part, Chris has done before. Those who have regular intensive training must needs find themselves alternatives to getting fucked in the ass, enjoyable as the latter is. Chris has only been fucked twice, both times last summer, with a guy from school. The Worlds gala marks the end of his season and he’s going to celebrate that in style.

‘New plan,’ he says, turning his head and failing to kiss Viktor. ‘Tomorrow, I’m going to ride you. I’m going to get on your dick and jerk myself off where you can see _everything_.’

Viktor bites his shoulder - it’s going to show over Chris’ costume tomorrow and Chris doesn’t care one bit - and comes, hard. He snakes a hand around to Chris’ dick, and Chris arches back into it for a minute, but stops him.

‘Not now,’ he says.

‘Why, have you got plans for later?’ Viktor asks. He looks over at the clock: it’s nearly midnight.

‘No,’ Chris says, ‘but I’ve got a good feeling about tomorrow.’

Viktor takes a second to catch on, and then cracks up laughing. But in the morning he gets on his knees in the shower and sucks Chris _almost_ to the edge. 

‘So how are you feeling about the gala?’ Viktor asks, looking up at Chris, wet hair plastered all over his chest and back.

‘Good,’ Chris says, dragging a breath in and squeezing his dick for a second. His wires are all crossed; his dick is protesting like hell but his head is singing. ‘I’m feeling really good about the gala.’

**Author's Note:**

> No necessary caveats lectors that I can think of, but as usual, I am not a wizard or a mind-reader. You do have to accept the risk that I might not have predicted your particular hot button; if you comment I can probably tag it for the reference of others.
> 
> As usual, I <3 comments but I do not <3 weird judgy commentary about characters sexual choices. No calling Chris a tart. Also, if you're absolutely attached to your headcanon that certain kinks in Viktor only emerged when Yuri came along, this is probably not the fic for you.
> 
> Also I feel like I owe a general apology to Daisuke Takahashi and Tomas Verner for writing them out of the 2007 Worlds rankings. The existence of Stéphane Lambiel makes trying to figure out Viktor and Chris' respective careers quite difficult, I tell you.


End file.
